


Fealty

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Competition, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Possessive Sherlock, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:37:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1528241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ok, fair warning: it's long, it's background fill-in, it's a looong development arc, and it's a piece that did not do at all what I expected.</p><p>Lestrade's POV, from early association with Sherlock and Mycroft to end of Season 3. UST between both Lestrade and Sherlock and Lestrade and Mycroft, but the Unresolved part of Unresolved Sexual Tension is the critical element. It's a lot more UST than lust...and as is usual with the Holmes Boys, it's complicated. </p><p>Read the end notes for a more complete understanding of what-all I intended, and what I actually got.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fealty

Lestrade watched as Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes paced ahead of him, heads together as they reviewed the changed situation and Moriarty’s apparent return.

Two such distinctive men… both tall. Both fit. Both in their own way announcing the likelihood of Celtic blood in the Holmes genealogy—the freckled, russet-haired elder and the blue-eyed, jet-haired younger; the elder wry and puckish, his face blessed with more charm than beauty, the younger alien-gorgeous, seductively elven.

He’d met Sherlock first, months before he’d met the powerful brother who’d forced MI5 to accept the seconded MI6 Bad Boy into their London anti-terrorism program. Mere hours after he’d heard he’d been assigned as liaison and handler, the brat had shown up in the middle of one of Lestrade’s Met investigations, trespassing against all the rules of encounter. Lestrade’s job as a Scotland Yard DI was his cover, his life, his anchor. The agents he handled weren’t supposed to intrude on that, or put it at risk. Yet there he was, Sherlock Holmes, larger than life and twice as obnoxious, rigged out in a coat that made him look like a renegade from a modeling agency, swanning through a murder site, the pupils of his eyes announcing he was higher than a jet in flight.

The fight that had followed had been loud and explosive. Lestrade had, to his amazement, won…sort of. More or less. Established his authority over his own crime site while, at the same time, being forced to cede Sherlock’s genius, as the stoned madman hurtled around the little room and the broken corpse of the ten-year-old, simultaneously losing his battle with the DI and winning another battle against the mystery of the murder. In the end Lestrade had succeeded in proving his dominance in his own arena, gained a solution for a hellish little killing, and obtained a…consulting detective. Who was really an MI5/6 anti-terrorist analyst, but what the hell….

He’d also obtained an aching hard-on and a painful reminder that before he’d married he’d been an equal-opportunity lover, choosing the best available regardless of race, creed, color, national origin—or gender.

Lestrade was a professional. He’d gone directly to his superior in MI5.

“Not a good idea,” he’d said, ruefully. “It’s not just that he’s a mad dog. He is, don’t get me wrong. The man’s mental. But he also gives me rocks in my jocks. Find someone else to work with him.”

Gwen Dansko had sighed and buried her face in her hands. “So not happening, Lestrade. Hell. I don’t care if you drag him behind the nearest skip in the next alley you’re in and roger him raw, so long as he’s willing. But he won’t be.” She leaned back, then, and studied him. “Ok. Here’s the down and dirty on the boy and the situation we’re in. First thing you need to know? Big Brother is Mycroft Holmes.”

“Who?”

She moaned. “Oh, God. Yeah, you probably aren’t high enough in the pecking order to know that name. So, if we’re doing a James Bond movie and I say, ‘M,’ does it mean anything to you?”

He snorted. “I’m not ignorant.”

“Yeah, you are. You just don’t know it. Now, if I tell you that in our world, anyone who was ‘M’ would kiss Mycroft Holmes’ round rosy bum rather than cross the bastard? Big Brother _is_ Big Brother. When you want to scare Downing Street, you use Mycroft Holmes as the boggle under the bed. Man’s a genius, a strategist and tactician who could give Sun Tzu lessons, and ruthless. Also incorruptible, imperturbable, and cold as the polar ice floes. He’d give a penguin frostbite. Except, within certain tight limits, where his mental brother is concerned. Which means that if you can cope with Sherlock, you’re stuck with him. Mycroft Holmes wants his baby brother kept within the sheltering wings of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”

“And of course he’ll adore it if that includes Baby Bughouse being buggered by his boss.”

“Nice alliteration, Lestrade. That said, I’m not sure he wouldn’t be relieved. Mycroft was never in the closet, so far as MI6 was concerned: he came into the organization ‘out’ already. He’s rumored to be as ice-cold and practical in that area as in anything else, but he’s active. Baby brother, though? So far as anyone can tell he doesn’t fuck anything or anyone or show anything more than a clinical understanding of what sex even involves. You don’t want to hear the theories people have come up with for what that’s all about. Mycroft may have ice instead of blood, but Sherlock? Something strange and alien and inhuman. Ichor, maybe.” She thought about it, and added, “Yeah. Ichor seems about right for Holmes Minor. There’s something unpleasantly eldritch about him. Me, I think Cthulhu was his godfather. Makes sense.”

“And Mycroft’s godfather?” Lestrade asked, amused.

She cocked her head. “Machiavelli. Yeah. Machiavelli, Sun Tzu, Confucius. All the complicated, brilliant bastards lined up to bless wee Mikey at his christening—and when the evil fairy showed up, she stole his heart and buried it somewhere in Siberia.” She stretched, then, and stood, ambling out of her own little office and into the larger area of cubbies. “So, what you have to know is that what matters to Mycroft is that little brother stays and is kept busy. Beyond that? Your business—but don’t count on getting laid. The odds are against it, as well as me thinking it would be suicidal to dip your wick in that much crazy. But, nu. You’re male. Sometimes I think crazy is a special, high-class turn-on for men.”

“Not for me,” Lestrade said—even as he realized that where Sherlock was concerned, it was a lie. He shied away from the fact, turning it back on Gwen…or at least her gender. “You can’t say women aren’t attracted to bad boy psychopaths like moths to flame.”

She shrugged and sighed. “True-dat.” She poured a cup of coffee, then returned to their original topic. “Can you deal with him? We can white-wash his participation in Met investigations if you can work with him.”

Lestrade closed his eyes, considering. “Yeah. He’s nuts. But he’s like a walking magnet for relevant details. It’s not just that he sees—he knows what he’s seeing, even when there’s no rational reason why he knows. He thinks he’s a logic machine. Me? I spent an hour going over his solution, and so near as I can determine the key connections were pure intuition—knowing when a detail meant A when it would normally mean B. He’s not rational, he’s inspired. That’s not a bad thing to have on site. The rest of us are trained to be rational: we can do it all day, and serve as a check to his crazier crazy. But he’s the spark. He sets it all on fire.”

She studied him, brown eyes sober. “You’re right. You’ve got it bad for this one.”

He shrugged. “I’m married.”

“Badly.”

“Not the point.”  She snorted, and he said, wearily, “It’s not. I’m married. I’m his boss. I’m his…manager? Referee? And, as you pointed out, he’s not into the game. It’s not going to matter.”

And it hadn’t. Even after he realized that Sherlock Holmes insisted on owning him, regardless of whether that ownership went anywhere. He could live with pretty-boy’s odd, intense, possessive flirtation amongst the corpses and the clues. After awhile he even learned the rules: when Sherlock was there, everything was about Sherlock. He’d have a tantrum if Lestrade didn’t watch Sherlock’s every flouncing step and hang breathlessly on every word. As soon as he swanned away, though, Lestrade was non-existent—of interest only if he had a new case or new information regarding terrorist activity in London. Once a week they’d rendezvous at a pub or fish and chip joint, exchange information in a single jetting pass from one smartphone to the other, discuss upcoming concerns in oblique, impenetrable insider’s language, then go their separate ways.

The changes began the first time Sherlock got himself shot.

It was classic Sherlock arse-holery. The idiot got an inspiration and went haring off at high speed, crawling amongst a veritable forest of skips in a car park behind a development. Lestrade and the team had gone racing after him, slowed down by basic professionalism and a blazing desire not to come face to face with the bastard who’d killed and eaten three teenagers in a subbasement of the complex. The result was that Sherlock reached the sonofabitch first. The sonofabitch was armed.

Fortunately the sonofabitch was more skilled with a flensing knife than with a handgun. The bastard missed twice and only winged Sherlock the third time—a hit high on his shoulder, piercing the triceps and passing on. He’d have been fine if he hadn’t taken a tumble into a skip and cracked his head hard enough to pass out.

Lestrade and his team caught their prey before he could even consider Sherlock’s culinary potential. Then they called for the ambulance and the paramedics. Lestrade stayed behind long enough to wrap up the case, checking on Sherlock’s status by phone, then made his way over to the hospital to check first hand. He cruised the desk, asking after his little lost lunatic.

“Still out, but stable and no one’s expecting trouble,” the nurse at the desk said. “His brother’s with him.”

That intrigued Lestrade. He’d heard next to nothing about Mycroft Holmes since talking to Gwen….and the very little he’d heard from Sherlock had consisted of biting, resentful comments carrying a maximum load of spite and a minimum load of actual information. He bought two cups of coffee from the machine on the ward floor, then slid quietly down the corridor toward the private room Big Brother had apparently nabbed for Sherlock.

He was lucky. Mycroft didn’t hear him coming—apparently his footfalls were muffled by the hum of the instruments gauging Sherlock’s condition. He got a chance to watch for almost a full five seconds. That’s an eternity when assessing a stranger. It was long enough to note the poise of the tall man, the cut of his suit, screaming “bespoke” and “bit of a dandy” and “quaint,” and “money.” Enough time to see something strong in him, but…solitary. It was enough time to know he loved Sherlock—long enough to note that Mycroft Holmes had tender eyes, and his hands were gentle as he wiped away a trail of drool from his brother’s snoring mouth. Sherlock snorted, and pawed at the motion, and Mycroft’s face lit with mischief and affection.

“Oh, do wake up, Sherlock, you silly twat.” Even his voice was gentle and amused. “You’ll be the death of me, you know. Did you have to chase that cretin into a blind ambush?”

“He’s reliable that way,” Lestrade murmured from the door of the room. “I’ve considered keeping him on a leash, but so far he’s managed to run off every time I tried to get the collar on him.”

Mycroft jumped and went still, and Lestrade could see the ice replace all the warmth and mischief. “He’s a challenging assignment,” he said. “I concede he’s difficult.” Then, warily, “You’re Lestrade, yes?”

Lestrade nodded, then raised a cup. “Got coffee, if you can stand to drink what the hospital sells out of the machine.”

Mycroft nodded in return. “In my work I assure you, I’ve tasted even worse.”

“Better, too, I dare say,” Lestrade said, walking across the room and handing him the cup. He took a sip from his own cup and grimaced. “Pretty bad, even compared to cop-shop brew.”

“Setting a high standard, then,” Mycroft said. “Or…a low one?” He sipped, and sighed. “Still doesn’t match what I had on the third day of negotiations in an ‘unknown location’ in a place north of the Danube.”

Both men meditated on just how bad bad coffee could get. After a while Lestrade said, “How’s Sherlock, then?”

“Apparently his brains are shaken, but not stirred.” When Lestrade snorted at the joke, Mycroft’s eyes lit for a sudden second, and he smiled. “Seriously, he’s expected to recover without complications. No sign of lasting damage. His arm will hurt for a while.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t keep him out of trouble.”

“You do better than I ever managed,” Mycroft said, soberly. “He’s somewhat self-destructive.”

“Somewhat.” Lestrade contemplated the understatement. “Yeah. That’s one way of putting it.” He eyed the other man, taking in the fox-brown hair, the receding hairline, the face—so very different from Sherlock’s, but no less elfin. The man seemed to honestly care about the madcap fool he’d placed in Lestrade’s keeping. “You…you know he’s using?”

Mycroft looked away, fog-blue eyes staring into nowhere in particular. “I’m…aware.”

Lestrade nodded. He didn’t say more. He’d been a copper too long—and an agent even longer—and he had no illusions about Mycroft’s ability to do much about it. “I don’t think he was using today.”

“According to his blood work, he wasn’t,” Mycroft said. “Two days ago is another matter. But, then…”

Both men were silent.

Sherlock stirred, and murmured something unintelligible. Mycroft stroked the disheveled curls from his forehead. “Are you awake, now, brother-mine?”

“Get out, you interfering bastard,” the younger man growled, without even opening his eyes. “Go buy yourself a vat of ice cream to celebrate my injuries...but leave me alone. I don’t need your lectures.”

Mycroft’s mouth tightened, and the tender eyes were no longer fog, but ice. “Not until I’m assured you’re recovered. Does it ever occur to you not to go racing into ambushes?”

“Dull,” Sherlock snapped. “Boring. Much more your style. Cautious is just another word for cowardice.”

“And courage is often another word for stupidity,” Mycroft snapped back, then sighed gustily. He glanced at Lestrade, and said, “I suspect it will be a waste of my time staying from here on in. You’ll let me know if he takes a turn for the worse?”

“I think I can promise that much,” Lestrade said with a crooked smile. He liked the man. He even sympathized. It was a comfort to know he wasn’t the first to care for the reckless fool on the bed.

Mycroft nodded, tersely, and retrieved an elegant umbrella from where it leaned by the head of Sherlock’s bed. “Very good, DI Lestrade.” The outer-left corner of his mouth flicked up in a momentary abbreviation of a smile, then stilled. A second later and he was gone.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and he looked down his nose at Lestrade. “It doesn’t pay to encourage him,” he growled, his baritone voice expressive and scornful as ever. “He’s better left to his own devices. Leave him alone to play British Government and he stays out of my hair for the most part. I much prefer to have him ruining Kim Jong-il’s life than getting his meddling fingers into mine.”

Yes, Lestrade could see that. Sherlock wasn’t one to appreciate anyone upstaging his dramas or attempting to rein in his excesses. “Independent, you are,” he said, not sure if he felt amused awe or resignation when he said it.

“Remember that,” Sherlock snapped. He studied Lestrade, silent for a moment, then whined, “I’m thirsty. My head hurts. Get me some water and find me a doctor!”

Lestrade, with a sigh, did.

Later he wished he could say the meeting with Mycroft marked him in some way—that he lingered over the memory of the tall man with a mischievous gremlin face that could appear shyly from behind placid ice and dignity. He wished he could say it mattered to him. In truth it mattered only because it filled in one more blank space in the seductive mystery that was Sherlock Holmes.

In many ways Sherlock was the ideal crush. Beautiful, dramatic, demanding…but also surprisingly useful in both crime investigation and espionage, and, better yet, selfish in ways that fit in well with Lestrade’s own moral concerns and life choices. When there was a case, or terrorism brewing, Sherlock was the diva of drama, sweeping everywhere, demanding complete attention, battling to hold center stage. The minute “The Work” was done, he had no time, no interest, and no patience with Lestrade. Lestrade understood the underlying logic: Sherlock didn’t want messy sex if he could have clean, rewarding worship on tap, there when he had a chance to show off, and not there when life was dull and he wanted to misbehave without fear of losing his divine standing among the Little People. It made fidelity easy, and allowed Lestrade to regard his own attraction to Sherlock as an affordable self-indulgence. No harm, no foul.

It combined all the advantages of a crush on a film star, but with a lot more utility. Sherlock owned him and used him—in the context of The Work. In the same context, Lestrade owned Sherlock. Beyond that, they were nothing to each other. It worked.

They even became comfortable with it. Companionable. Lestrade found he could get away with dropping by the apartment at Montague Street for a beer and a quick consult on a minor case. Sherlock determined that, on rare occasions, it was useful to have Lestrade’s advice before stepping into complex social waters—such as, for example, how to interview clients without being assaulted by the end of the interview. Lestrade couldn’t convince Sherlock to stop using—but he did succeed in insisting he couldn’t use on cases. Sherlock, after some time, was able to convince Lestrade to not only contact him when his team pulled an interesting case, but to recommend him to colleagues when they were the ones who pulled “a weird one.” Sometimes when they stopped at the pub or the fish and chip shop, they’d stay after their business was done and talk. Shop talk, mainly—Sherlock didn’t have what one might consider “hobbies” in the normal sense. When it wasn’t shop talk, it was music: there they came together, in sparring fashion, with Lestrade passionately defending the old Punk bands, Sherlock coming out swinging for jazz-rock and art-rock, and the two meeting in the middle regarding their shared love of the classic singer-songwriters and their loathing of disco. It was worth a pint or two on a slow evening, anyway. If, every so often, Lestrade realized Sherlock was playing him—holding his attention with blue-opal eyes ablaze, smiling a bit to fiercely…

Well. It wasn’t like it only fed Sherlock’s ego, after all. Being Sherlock’s choice for chaste seduction was a bit of a pick-me-up, given the way things were going at home. Yes, on occasion he considered crossing the silent boundaries both honored—reaching out and stroking Sherlock’s slim wrist, tracing a finger across his knuckles, playing a bit of footsie under the pub table. It wasn’t worth it, though. Lestrade knew perfectly well that if he made a move, the bubble would burst and the game would be over.

He heard from Mycroft rarely, and always in an official role. Twice Sherlock’s older brother passed on information from MI6’s own antiterrorist program. Once he checked on Sherlock’s involvement with a case that worried him. Once he called to close down a case, demanding Lestrade do his part to hand it off to MI6. He didn’t see the man—just got calls.

“He likes voices,” Sherlock said, sounding as though he’d just confessed his brother liked grubbing in sewage or wallowing in mud. “He says the information feed is greater than in texts or email or instant messaging. I can’t get him to understand that the increased information is mostly garbage.” He grimaced. “Most of the extra load is feelings. _Feelings_.He’s the one who avoids involvement. And if you think I have trouble with groups, you haven’t seen Mycroft.”

“Must be hard, in his position,” Lestrade said.

“He focuses as much on analysis as he can,” Sherlock said. “When they pull him out for diplomacy or direct threats, well…I’ll give him this much: he’s disciplined.”

For the first time in months Lestrade had a vivid visual memory of the tall, soft-handed man in his carefully fitted suit, hands carefully wiping Sherlock’s mouth clean, eyes tender. He tried to recall more. He brought back the trim umbrella, tightly furled, held tight. He closed his eyes, and…yes. There it was—the reserve, the isolated distance. The Iceman.

No… Jokes aside, he was cold, but not ice. Lestrade frowned, trying to work out what stood out in his memory of Sherlock’s brother. He clutched for a comparison, a metaphor…and found none. The closest he came was a visual memory of a lone pine on an ocean-side cliff in Somerset: tall, twisted yet ferociously upright, and solitary against a stormy morning sky. Still, the tree evoked the pristine and very human beauty you’d find in a Japanese ink painting. For all the solitary, sharp-needled, twisted isolation, there was something warm about him begging for a squirrel to sit on a branch, a crow to nest against the bole of his trunk, a fox to den safe in the fortress of the root system.

His hands. Lestrade could recall them clearly: soft, long-fingered, the pink of a red-head who seldom saw the sun. His fingers weren’t especially elegant, but they’d been gentle. One hand had cradled Sherlock’s face, holding his head steady, as the other dabbed delicately at the corner of his mouth, where the spittle had run down.

“He’s a total bastard,” Sherlock said, studying Lestrade’s face with narrowed eyes. “He didn’t get to the top by being ‘nice.’ He’s brilliant—but a bastard.”

“Had to be nice enough to be promoted,” Lestrade said, far too aware of Sherlock’s attention. When Sherlock studied him it was like lying under a heat lamp—almost too hot to endure. “You don’t make it up the ladder if you’re not at least a bit good, as well as great.”

Sherlock scoffed. “’Good.’ That’s like ‘nice.’ Mediocre people hand it out as the consolation present to make up for being a loser.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Guess that explains why I hope I’m good,” he said, and pushed away from the pub table. He turned and headed for the door, pausing only for a moment to say, “It’s not so bad as you think it is, sunshine. ‘Good’ is what makes everything else work, y’know? Without good, there’s no room for great.”

He drove home that night wondering if he was lying to himself. His wife wasn’t home. When she did come home, they fought. According to her, they fought because he was ‘nice’ and ‘good,’ but she still felt empty. Lestrade thought about Sherlock—shining, beautiful, brilliant Sherlock—and wondered if he were right.

He kept seeing the brother’s hands, wiping away the spittle. The tender eyes. And, yet…

The brother was alone. Successful, but alone. Even Sherlock wasn’t alone that way. He gathered worshipers, he collected fellow freaks, he invested in minions. His homeless network was a thing of beauty, filled with losers hungry to please the shining star who rewarded them with little more than a glittering smile, a wink, and a tenner he’d charge to MI5.

Did Mycroft have worshippers? He had to, Lestrade thought. To rise so high, he needed worshippers, minions, enemies. And, yet, it wasn’t like Sherlock, somehow.

There were days he hoped. Different days he hoped for different things: for Sherlock to be good, as well as great. For Sherlock to smile at him and mean it. For a single kiss. For a hot shag in the flat on Montague Street. For an evening spent over pints of beer and laughing, with no sly edges and no sense of being taken for a ride. For a chance to escape Sherlock entirely. For a chance to claim him—entirely.

Then John Watson arrived, and ended most of the hopes entirely—or took them over.

He was a crazy man, Lestrade thought. Crazier than Lestrade. More infatuated, but, perhaps blessedly, less desirous. It didn’t take Lestrade long to realize that for Watson it wasn’t sex at all, but obsessive fascination with Sherlock’s brilliance, his charisma, his drama, his madness. The fascinating thing was that he had much the same fascination for Sherlock. Again, it didn’t seem to be sexual, but it was not any less potent for all that. They were in perfect counter-balance, spinning around each other, offsetting each other. Neither was strong enough to pull the other to his doom. Neither was strong enough to truly escape the attraction.

Lestrade’s team was placing bets on how long it would be before the two roommates were in bed together. Lestrade had fifty pounds on “never.” His people kept teasing him, saying he was just old fashioned, stuffy, didn’t think two men would get it on—not when one was as straight in his affect as John Watson. Lestrade didn’t correct them in their innocence. They didn’t need to know he’d crossed over that line of ignorance long before, first hand, without any guidance but his own needs to show the way. Instead he just laughed and said that, whatever the hell Sherlock was, John Watson had invested his entire life-savings in “straight guy,” and was too stubborn to risk it for anyone as erratic as Sherlock.

Privately he wasn’t quite so sure…but he also wasn’t sure it wasn’t envy and empathy ganging up on the rest of his brain.

The night John Watson shot Jeff Hope, and that Lestrade decided to pretend he didn’t know he had, Mycroft Holmes appeared again, hovering at the verge of the crime site, just outside the plastic tape barrier. He was wearing the kind of coat you usually saw on diplomats in the evening news, going to meet foreign dignitaries, or that MPs wore on Remembrance day as they laid their wreaths on the Cenotaph. Beside him was a sleek, satisfied brunette who shrieked “Bond Girl with Brains.” Emma Peel, maybe, or Moneypenny. He caught Lestrade’s eye, and raised his chin, a quick little jerk of the head that said, “Come over here” with an authority all out of proportion to the scope of the gesture.

Lestrade made his excuses to his team, left Sally Donovan in charge, and loped across the road, ducking under the tape. He came to a halt in front of Mycroft. “Yeah?”

“Come take a ride with me,” the other man said, eyes glittering and alert. “I’d like a word with you.”

Lestrade nodded, silently, and slipped into the car, noting that the sleek vixen went up front with the driver, behind the privacy panel.

“What do you think of him?” Mycroft asked, like a boy with a brand new motorcycle asks his best friend: there was a suppressed excitement, a note of optimism Lestrade didn’t recall from any previous interaction with Mycroft Holmes.

“Interesting,” he said, warily. “Capable. Er…you do know—“

“—he shot that verminous little cabbie?” Mycroft said, cutting him off in his own excitement. “Yes. I can’t say he or Sherlock were exactly subtle about it. But they’ve just begun. Given time…his record’s promising. Smart enough—a skilled doctor. A good soldier. With luck we may finally have the right partner for Sherlock.”

Lestrade felt something die just a bit, in spite of the fact that if Mycroft Holmes had ever asked him if he wanted to be partner to Sherlock Holmes as an espionage agent, he’d have had to say “no” as loudly and as often as it took to turn Mycroft off. They already worked as closely as Lestrade thought safe or sane for either of them. And, yet…

Mycroft had never asked him. So far as Lestrade knew, Big Brother had never sparkled with such hope when he’d started working with Sherlock. If he had, it was clear that he’d failed whatever implied tests there were long since, proving good enough to work with Sherlock, but not good enough to be partnered with him.

Mycroft studied him, a slight frown-line forming between his brows. It was intriguing, Lestrade thought—you could almost see him shunting out his ordinary software and slipping new programs into place. What—eM-pathy 2.5? Whatever software he used, after a second the frownline cleared, and he said, with the surprise of someone who never expected the answer he’d arrived at, “Oh—but even you don’t think you’d work in that role with him! Do you?” He paused, checked his own computations, and said more firmly, “No. You don’t. And you’d be right. He’d destroy you, you know. You’re not…” he paused, looking for words, then said, “You’re not coarse enough. You’re strong, and flexible—amazingly so. But he’d hit you at the wrong angle one day, and you’d shatter. Even a perfect sword is a sword, not a fire poker.”

Lestrade snorted, and leaned back against the smooth leather upholstery. “And John Watson’s a poker?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Poker. Wrought iron staff. Maybe even tough brass. He’s durable in a different way. Sherlock’s going to have a hard time ruining that one.” He smiled, and said. “Such a relief, isn’t it?”

Lestrade didn’t know what to say in response. “Hell no” seemed a bit sullen. “Sherlock needs people,” he said, diplomatically.

Mycroft nodded in contented agreement. “Yes. It will free you up, some, too. I’ve been hoping something would come up that would.”

“Hmmmm?”

“Yes,” Big Brother said. “I’ve been planning an integrated network combining forces between MI6 and MI5 anti-terrorism programs I’ve been developing. I need someone with experience and stable placement on the ground, who’s familiar with Sherlock’s work, and willing to work with me. It would mainly be an extension of what you already do: ride herd on Sherlock. But you’d serve as a communication conduit, and…” He looked at his black-gloved hands. “I’m not comfortable with field work, and it’s at odds with my London cover in any case. I need someone on the ground to serve as my eyes and ears and hands. Or as Sherlock likes to say, my ‘legs.’ He thinks I’m…lazy.”

“Are you?” Lestrade asked.

Mycroft shrugged and looked away, eyes watching as London swept past. “My strengths are primarily analytical. Large scope. Much of what I do is integrate data from multiple sources, develop models, extrapolate likely outcomes, determine appropriate responses. Work best done in the quiet of a London office, with superb access to both public and private networks. Occasionally my skills call me out of the country, but quite honestly I have done all I can to train up people to take over that work. I have the skills, but not the temperament, and I have more pressing obligations.”

“Doesn’t sound lazy to me,” Lestrade said. “Of course, the only models I usually deal with are blond and show up in my dreams.”

Mycroft gave his characteristic flickering not-quite-a-smile, never taking his eyes off the city outside the car. “Sherlock’s more interested in field work than I am.”

Sherlock was addicted to more than cocaine and opiates, Lestrade thought. Sherlock was addicted to performance, and you can’t well perform without an audience. Field work provided an audience. Especially the way Sherlock did it. This man seemed to like drama, too, but of a far more restrained, sheltered sort. Little private interactions that bloomed and were gone.

When Lestrade was sick as a little boy, his mother had gone down to Chinatown and purchased tiny clam shells—shiny and delicate, smaller than the nail on his little finger, all pinky-beige and white plaid. When he dropped them in hot water they opened, and a tiny little paper flower on a green-thread stem floated up. Sherlock’s performances were all thunder and lightning bolts and witches on a blasted heath, Mycroft’s were little paper flowers drifting up in a cup of weak tea, to amuse a sick child. Miniature and perfect. And, yet—it was Mycroft’s miniatures that shook the world and terrified tyrants and altered reality. Sherlock? What Sherlock did mattered—MI5 and MI6 would never put up with him, never pay him, if he didn’t do good work. But he was the lesser power.

“Sherlock’s a bit of a rowdy,” Lestrade said. “Lucky. But he’s not exactly subtle.”

“He hits what he aims at,” Mycroft said. “The problem is really that all the things he hits on the way to his target make the mistake of thinking he was aiming at them. They lack the proper perspective to recognize his precision.”

“Mmm. He generates quite a lot of collateral damage.”

“In his life? Yes. Professionally?” Mycroft shook his head. “Professionally he is, if anything, far too efficient.”

Lestrade felt a shiver run down his back. “We’re not just talking in metaphors, are we?”

Mycroft didn’t answer.

It changed things, somehow. Lestrade spent weeks after trying to work out what shifted when he realized Sherlock had been a shooter—a shooter so good he scared his masters. A shooter they pulled in and put to work doing analysis and messing with NSY crime investigations.

He watched Sherlock and John together, knowing—as John didn’t know—that the man he raced beside was as dangerous—more dangerous—than he was. All Sally Donovan’s predictions came back to frighten him sometimes.

Then he saw the two men smile at each other, or lean laughing riotously against a wall like ten-year-olds in their first forever-and-ever, life-love, cut-your-thumbs-and-swear-blood-brothers friendship. There was an innocence and grace to what they had… and together they solved crimes. Sherlock’s drug use dropped to almost nothing. He was…happy.

Lestrade was capable of regretting he had so little to do with it. Even more he resented that Sherlock had no interest in letting him go: he didn’t want John instead of Lestrade. He wanted John—and Lestrade as well. An audience of two, and if John was adored, Lestrade was owned…and Sherlock was jealous of his possessions.

“You’re working with my brother,” he said, savagely, one afternoon on a case when John was stuck in the clinic.

“Yes,” Lestrade said. “He needed someone in the field.”

“Farming still more work out?” Sherlock snapped. “My word. His sloth knows no bounds. Watch out—next thing you know you’ll have no life. Though—it’s not like you have much of a life in any case.”

“What’s got up your bum?” Lestrade wasn’t so much angry as wry and resigned. “You’re turning into a complete cock, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scowled. “He can’t leave me anything of my own.”

“I’m not yours, sunshine. My wife’s? Yeah. Yours? No.”

Sherlock sniffed, and prodded in moody annoyance at the protruding tongue of a strangling victim. “As usual you’ve got it backward, Lestrade. She’s written you off years since. It’s just a matter of how long she takes to find a more reliable berth. Once she’s found one, you’re just one more stray on the street.”

Lestrade sighed. “You’re a right bastard, Sherlock. Look, I’ve been working at it. Easier to do now you don’t drag me out to the pubs so often. Been making progress, we have.”

“Wrong.”

God, he hated it when Sherlock did that. Just that single word, floating, accusing you of the worst of all sins in Sherlock’s estimation: getting it wrong. Missing it. Failing.

He let it go. That night, going home, he stopped in Chinatown and looked for little clamshells with flowers inside. He couldn’t find any. He settled for a fat white teapot glazed with red and gold chrysanthemums. They even wrapped it for him, in shiny gold-foil paper with red flowers embossed on the foil.

His wife wasn’t in when he got home. She’d left him dinner in the oven, though, and a note on the kitchen table. “Off to exercise class. Don’t wait up. Love you. XOXOXO.”

There were two messages on his phone. The first was a text from Sherlock:

_Does eating alone tell you anything? SH_

Lestrade deleted the message without answering.

The second message was voice mail, from Mycroft.

“ _DI Lestrade—I’ve got a project coming up that will require some extra effort on your part to deal with Sherlock. If you’re free, would you be willing to meet with me tomorrow night at my office? I’ll have dinner brought in. Do get back to me to confirm or let me know about conflicts.”_

His voice was smooth—higher than Sherlock’s and more posh, but also polite. By now he knew enough to suspect that Mycroft Holmes could steam the paint off an offending minion if he chose—but, still, it was nice that he chose a bit of diplomacy more often. Sugar instead of vinegar. Lestrade dialed the return number he’d been given to reach Mycroft directly.

“ _Tomorrow night’s not a problem. I’ll just let my wife know I’ve got work and not to wait up for me. Anything I need to know or research before I come in?”_

He could hear a smile in Mycroft’s voice. “ _Inspector!  A pleasure to hear back from you so quickly. No—I’ll have my PA prepare the basic information packets you’ll need. The main thing is that I’ll be interfacing with several other national security agencies—the Americans, the Germans. It’s really an All-West event. I’ll be busy, and I want to know someone I trust is keeping an eye on Sherlock.”_

_“You do know there’s only so much I can do with him, right?”_

_“Of course. God and all his little angels couldn’t be trusted to keep him in check reliably. Personally I think you’re more likely than God to call me and let me know if something’s gone catastrophically wrong, though.”_

_“There is that. God’s not know for leaving phone messages when you need them,”_ Lestrade conceded. He wondered if Mycroft knew he was hitting all Lestrade’s buttons—the smile in the voice, the statement of trust, the quiet humor. Lestrade wasn’t a fool. He knew he was responding to what might well be empty professional courtesies. Still—they were welcome courtesies. He cleared his throat, and said, cautiously, “ _Your brother says you prefer phone contact to text.”_

 _“I prefer phone contact to text, and face-to-face contact over phone.”_ He didn’t elaborate further, though.

 _“I don’t get to do either as much as I used to,”_ Lestrade said. “ _Too busy. It’s all text and email and attachments these days, it seems like.”_ And notes on the kitchen table and dinners wrapped in foil packets in the oven.

 _“I live in a virtual reality much of the time. There’s a certain comfort in hearing the authentic sound of a human voice, and sense a mind composing a sentence in real-time,”_ Mycroft said. _“There are elements of interactions that can’t be faked. I don’t…trust…virtual interactions.”_

Lestrade wanted to ask the Iceman if he trusted any interactions, but suspected that would be one bridge too far.

Mycroft was telling the truth. He was busy for months, while Sherlock was running around in the oddest of moods—crazy for a dominatrix, wobbling back and forth between ego and shaken humility. Then something went wrong. Lestrade didn’t know what—but something went very, very wrong. For twenty-four hours Sherlock and Mycroft both went silent. When they came back, they were changed.

When they came back, they were on a roller coaster to hell.

Of course, before then Lestrade’s wife finally found a better berth….

“Moriarty,” Lestrade said, sitting in front of Mycroft’s desk, fingers tracing the empty place his wedding ring had once filled. “I hoped we’d seen the last of the little bastard.”

Mycroft lifted a shoulder in a one-sided shrug. His laptop was open, though pushed to one side. His hand touched it, tracing the edge of the case, as though he drew comfort from its presence. Lestrade had deduced that the umbrella and the laptop and the black limo all soothed Mycroft—security blankets. When he was annoyed with his boss he amused himself by thinking of him with his collection of binkies. Security blankets, pacifiers, imaginary friends. Coping mechanisms.

“He’s become a problem,” Mycroft said. “A cancer, of sorts. He’s spreading. His network is spreading. And he’s proving too effective a support for our enemies. A consensus has been reached: he must be dealt with.”

“Consensus?” Lestrade sat in the big wrought-iron chairs in Mycroft’s MI6 office—the one only known within Secret Service circles, and then only to a select few. “Who’s in on the decision making?”

“It’s a multi-national effort,” Mycroft said. His fingers continued to trace the edge, coasting up and down a narrow seam between the top and bottom shells of the structure. “The UK, I will admit, is taking special interest. He appears to have targeted me.”

Lestrade felt a prickle and shiver as the hair rose on the nape of his neck. “I thought it was just a fascination with Sherlock…”

“Apparently at least in part a means to an end.” Mycroft shrugged. “I believe Sherlock he likes to…play with. Me he wants to outmaneuver. There’s a difference.”

“Wants to destroy Sherlock, too, yeah?”

Mycroft shrugged that one-shoulder shrug again. “He is…unstable.”

“Mental.”

“Quite.” Then Mycroft appeared to veer from his topic. “Did you enjoy Majorca?”

Lestrade looked down at his ring-finger. He was still tracing the empty space left by his wedding ring with one finger. The skin was pale against his recent tan. “It helped. Blew away a few cobwebs.”

“My condolences on your marriage.”

This time it was Lestrade who shrugged. “Happens.”

First John had come. Now his wife had gone. Life became simpler and simpler—more and more empty.

“It simplifies certain things,” Mycroft said, then, as though reading Lestrade’s mind. “Sherlock and I have been discussing the upcoming conflict.”

“You talk about this like it’s a battle.”

“Oh, it will be,” Mycroft said. “A deadly battle…and if we lose, the end result will have worldwide effects.”

“And if we win?”

Mycroft sighed. “Worldwide effects that way, too. Just more pleasant for us.”

“What do you need, then?”

“Blind faith.”

Lestrade blinked. “What?”

“Blind faith. The months to come are going to be difficult…and the apparent losses are going to be hellish. I need you to believe Sherlock and I know what we’re doing. No matter what it looks like.”

Lestrade frowned. “That’s asking a lot.”

“Yes.”

He thought about it. Mycroft’s office was dim and quiet. The main sound Lestrade heard was soft breath and the stead, snake-skin rasp of Mycroft’s finger on the plastic seam.

At last Lestrade said, “When does the game start?”

Mycroft smiled—a smile of ice and emptiness. “Tomorrow. At Baskerville Military Base. I need you to back Sherlock up…and I need to suggest to certain parties that you’re his, not mine.”

Lestrade nodded. He did know this game of telegraphed innuendo. “Any other things you want me to consider?”

“I’ve almost given up on John Watson as an informed member of our conspiracy. He can’t lie, he can’t play a role, and he doesn’t understand how the game is played. He’s a perfect companion for my lunatic brother, but he’ll never be the professional partner I dreamed he’d be. Sherlock, though, wants us to give him one last chance. Watch them. Watch John. If you think he’s spy material—let me know. Otherwise from here on in, he’s a friend—but not in the loop.”

Lestrade thought about the neat, clever doctor—honest, fierce and loyal. Being left out would hurt him. “No way to structure this to keep him out of the line of fire?”

“Sherlock and I are trying. We’ve currently got sixteen expected lines of projected development. All of them include options that leave John uninvolved in any way.”

“It will break his heart if he learns Sherlock’s lied to him.”

“No. It won’t. Sherlock lies to him regularly. John forgives him—every time.”

Which, Lestrade thought, was true—as true as that he himself forgave Sherlock over and over. As true as the fact that Mycroft did.

“Your brother seems to have a talent for being forgiven,” Lestrade said.

“In Moriarty his talent has failed him.”

“Mmmm. Understood.” He sighed and stood, then. “John loves him, you know. Not—not in-love love. But if there’s such a thing as romance without sex, John’s got it bad.”

“I know. I pity him—but can’t help him.”

“Sherlock loves him, too.”

“Insofar as Sherlock loves, yes.”

They both considered Sherlock. Uncertain, Lestrade said, “He does love. He _does_ … You know that.”

Both heard the question hidden in the statement. Mycroft shook his head. His hand no longer stroked the laptop—instead he clung to it, limpet-like, fingers wrapping around the corner of the case. “I…don’t trust my observations, where Sherlock is involved. Caring is not an advantage. It introduces bias…”

“And fear.”

Mycroft met Lestrade’s eyes with an open vulnerability Lestrade hadn’t seen since that first encounter, over Sherlock’s hospital bed. “Yes. He assures me he’s a monster, you know.”

“He’s not.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Mycroft nodded, and looked down at his desk, breaking off their connection. “I’ll take your word for it, and hope you’re right. Because if you’re wrong, someday I will have to decide whether he’s an asset—or an abomination.”

The ride that followed was as bad as Mycroft had suggested and worse. The drama echoed through the Met, almost destroyed Lestrade and Sally Donovan, did destroy poor mad Anderson. The scandal fodder kept the newsanchors on the telly happy for literally years after. Lestrade was almost grateful when John Watson cut his ties to Sherlock’s old circle of friends. Keeping Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s secrets was too painful…more painful that letting Mycroft keep Sherlock’s secrets from Lestrade. He knew the younger man was alive and hunting, but knew no more—not even if he’d see the man again.

He dreamed of him, sometimes. He fell like Lucifer, wings spread wide, feathers black as his hair. He was beautiful. As he fell he smiled and winked—and it was as manipulative and cold a gesture as ever. No one could game you like Sherlock could game you…

“He did live, didn’t he?” he asked Mycroft one evening, as they reviewed the effect of each new round of rumors, as they watched the patterns of information gathering and flow. “He really did survive?”

Mycroft looked at him across the wide desk. “Trust me.”

They’d grown closer, though Lestrade could barely say how. Perhaps it was just that they shared a secret few others held. Or maybe it was that between tracking the ripples caused by Sherlock’s leap, and tracking the eternal question of security against domestic attack, they had become used to working together. They were halves of a whole. Lestrade felt useful in ways he never had with Sherlock: what he saw, the networks he formed, the links he created, the legwork he did—all of it meshed with Mycroft’s silent labors as the spider in the center of the web.

He tried to remind himself that every radial thread of that web led to another “Lestrade” doing legwork for the spider. It didn’t change anything: he still felt like something vital flowed between him and the mastermind in the shadowed office.

He looked across the desk at Mycroft, and said, softly. “I do. I trust you.”

He saw Anderson often. It was one of his assignments—the Empty Hearse swept up information like a vast trawling net, collecting fact and fiction, rumor and mere innuendo. They had a way of thinking that fascinated Mycroft.

“Nine tenths of the ideas they have are bunk. But the tenth? God—brilliant. Bent, but brilliant.”

He laughed the day he and Lestrade reviewed the story about Sherlock as an infiltrator of a Tibetan monastery, and helping solve the murder in India, and swinging the hung jury in Germany. It was a bright, lilting sound… free and delighted. Lestrade studied him.

“Is any of it true, then?”

“Not a word of it,” Mycroft said.

“What is true, then?”

“That would be telling.”

Lestrade hadn’t seen the merry little gremlin grin since he’d first met Mycroft. He smiled in reflexive joy. “Good news?”

Mycroft waggled his hand. “Ma-ma hu-hu,” he said with intonations that, to Lestrade, were authentically Chinese. “Change.”

Lestrade frowned down at the second set of information on his tablet. “I hope it’s for the better. I don’t like what I see here. There’s something wrong here…and I can’t trace what.”

Mycroft was instantly sober. “Fontaine died, but he brought us facts. We’re working on it.”

“Real threat?” Lestrade asked.

“Very real indeed.”

“I wish Sherlock were here, then.”

Mycroft looked sad, but said nothing.

That same day he’d taken John a box of Sherlock’s old things… He hadn’t seen John in months. The man was sad, and uncomfortable in Lestrade’s presence—he’d never felt so much like the ghost at the feast, the reminder of lost times and stolen treasure.

It was easier just staying away from John. He could avoid the temptation to say, “He’s alive.”

When he handed John the DVD from the cardboard shoebox, his fingers seemed to cling just a second too long. He had to remind himself that he still had the master copy. Sherlock, at his best and his worst: cruel, emotionally blinkered, coldly manipulative. Sherlock: witty, awkward, needing help and unsure how to either ask for it or accept it. Sherlock…flip and flirty and fickle and fey.

He’d forgotten how much he loved Sherlock. He had forgotten how much John loved Sherlock.

He wanted to say that Sherlock, like Byron, was mad, bad, and dangerous to know: an engraved invitation to heartbreak. A friend whose loyalty must always be treated as unreliable—real but so oddly formatted that it might fail you just when you thought you could count on it. It was one thing to believe in Sherlock—another to ever trust him.

The little disk left his hand, passed to John’s. Lestrade hoped it kept John’s memory alive—all the memory, good and bad. If Sherlock never came back, it would be important for John to remember that the wild man could be an evil, cruel bastard as well as a beloved fool. If Sherlock ever did come back, it would be even more important. John was in grave danger of remembering only St. Sherlock…but the Sherlock who would come back would be the careless liar, swinging his halo on his finger like a hula hoop and winking “because it humanizes me.”

“He’s back,” Molly said. She stared at the pancreas in the bowl in front of her, then prodded it with a dissecting needle. She didn’t sound quite sure what she thought about that.

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah. He’s back.”

He’d never hugged Sherlock before. He’d never felt that long, gangly body tense and relax. It had been such a surprise—such a delight. He didn’t know whether to hit Sherlock and Mycroft for keeping it secret, or buy them both a pint in thanks for the gift of simple, pure happiness he felt when he realized the crazy fool was back.

It was intense enough when it happened. It was worse when he remembered it that night.

It had been too long since he held anyone. He didn’t know if what he felt was desire or mere human longing for warmth and touch.

Two years, almost three since his wife had left him. Two years since Sherlock jumped. Two years of shadow life. Then Sherlock was back, and for a short time it felt like it would all burst into full life again.

It didn’t. It wasn’t just John and his Mary. Sherlock did have cases. Over time he got back into the swing. But it never quite gelled. Sherlock wasn’t trusted at the Met as much as he had been… He and Lestrade didn’t seem to work together as much as they had.

Something hovered between them, uneasy, awkward, unstated.

“What about you, Scotland Yard,” Sherlock had said, teasing him at the wedding. Not Greg—even now, he wasn’t Greg. They were comfortable with each other. Lestrade played dumb—easy enough to do two hours into a reception that rained drink. He and Sherlock shot sarky comments at each other like old marrieds as they celebrated the marriage of the newlyweds.

It felt a lot like the last days of his own marriage, though. Familiar but no longer intimate. Comfortable but no longer charged with life or meaning.

Sherlock that day—God. He was everything he and Mycroft had ever dreamed he could be. He was bursting with his brilliance and his madness and his love for John—and even for Mary. The damned fool even wrote himself into their wedding.

And then he was gone.

“He’s not taking it well,” Mycroft said, fretfully. “He’s erratic, testy, he avoids me.”

“Me, too,” Lestrade said. “He is sticking to the anti-terrorist work. But he’s not even texting me for cases.”

They’d both been worried since the wedding.

“John hasn’t stayed in touch,” Lestrade said. “I got that much out of him.”

Mycroft swore, to Lestrade’s surprise. “Damned passive aggressive twat.”

Lestrade sighed. “He’s still got plenty of angry to wear off.”

Mycroft nodded. “I know. It’s just—the timing couldn’t be worse.” Lestrade hummed a question mark at him, and he continued, “Something brewing in Eastern Europe. Something big. Not something I can hand off to anyone else. I’m going to need you and Anthea to take up some of the slack, if you must know. It’s a bad time for Sherlock and John to be having trouble.”

“They’ll work it through,” Lestrade said. “If they don’t on their own, Mary will work a miracle or two.”

 “That is…possible. She’s exceptional.”

The two men passed the conversation back and forth between them, fretting familiar frets, handing each other support and critique in equal measure. Lestrade had long since realized that Mycroft kept entire volumes of secrets from him. His profession made it mandatory. He’d realized that Mycroft, likewise, could out-think him on the worst day he ever had. In spite of that, he had a place, he had a use.

“You’re Mycroft’s man, aren’t you?” Sherlock had growled on day, on a rare shared case.

Lestrade shrugged. “I’m my own man.”

The look of disgust Sherlock sent his way stung….but since when was that news? Loving Sherlock hurt. End sentence. Full stop. “Oh, do give over, Lestrade. You’re born to guard someone’s back, stand by someone’s side. All I want to know is if it’s Mycroft.”

“I work with him. Have for years. You know that.”

Sherlock glowered. “Evasive action is amusing in a criminal. It’s merely pitiful in someone I’ve known as long as I’ve known you. Who holds your loyalty, Lestrade?”

Lestrade met Sherlock’s eyes. “Among other people—you.” He waited to see what happened.

When they’d first worked together Sherlock would have kindled at the statement—on fire, even as he denied and deflected. He’d have sparkled with the attention, preened to know he held Lestrade’s chain.

Now—almost a decade after they’d first met—he considered. He flashed the DI a smile that was edgy, but not quite coy. “The hell you are,” he said.

That was when something uneasy stirred in Lestrade’s belly.

“Are you using?” he asked.

“I’d only use if a case called for it,” Sherlock said. “This one doesn’t.”

Lestrade weighed the phrasing. “Working any other cases?”

“I’ve been approached to consider something. But…no. Nothing official yet.”

“So you’re not using?”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “How many ways do you need me to say it? I’m in control, Lestrade. I gave it up years ago.”

Lestrade studied his eyes, studied his nose, watched his fingers dance over the evidence. He wasn’t sure.

There was, however, lipstick on Sherlock’s collar. That he was sure of.

“Seeing someone?” he asked, expecting denial.

Sherlock blushed. “Mmmm.”

“Who?”

The younger man turned even more pink. “Janine.  Remember? Mary’s maid of honor.”

Pretty thing—Lestrade remembered that much. Pretty and sassy and she’d amused Sherlock. She’d made the dour bastard smile. The realization shook him, like an autumn gale roaring through a forest.

“She’s nice,” he said.

Sherlock shrugged. “She’s all right.” Then he looked at Lestrade, and asked again, “Whose man are you? Mycroft’s? Or mine?

“My own.”

“I see,” Sherlock said. “Nobody’s.”

Which was, Lestrade thought, entirely too true.

The two calls came in so close to each other it was chance which one he answered on the cell, and which he put on call-waiting. He got Mycroft first.

“Sherlock’s been shot. He’s at King’s hospital undergoing emergency surgery. I can’t be there, Lestrade—and John’s under arrest for breaking and entering.  I can’t leave my office. I shouldn’t even be making this call. Please—go there. For me. I’m having Anthea wire you my legal proxy. You can stand as next of kin for permissions. Just—please, say you can go.”

“On it,” he said, already off the sofa and scrambling into his chinos. “Want me to call when I know anything?”

“Anthea. Call Anthea. She’ll know if I can be interrupted or not.” Mycroft’s voice was ragged, a touch panicky. Lestrade couldn’t tell if it was panic over Sherlock, or whatever was keeping him from Sherlock’s bedside. His experience of the man suggested it had to be both—any situation not worth panicking over would not be sufficient to keep him away from Sherlock’s side.

“Understood.”

“I’m having Anthea arrange for you to be off work until this is over, and the car’s already on the way,” Mycroft said. “John says…it’s bad.”

“Got it. I’ve got to take John’s call, now. I’ll let Anthea knows when anything changes.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said.

“No thanks needed.”

They left it like that. Lestrade thumbed through to John’s call.

“John—I just talked to Mycroft. I’m on my way to the hospital. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No. Mycroft’s sent some of his minions to deal with getting me out. He’s looking for Mary, too. I can’t get through to her—must have gone out and forgotten her phone. But Sherlock’s got no one there.”

“I’m on my way. Car’s just pulled up. Call me when you’re out.”

“Will do.”

Hospital coffee was as bad as it had been ten years previously. Sherlock was far worse…and Mycroft wasn’t there by his side, tender-eyed, wiping his mouth.

“He nearly died,” the admitting doctor said. “I’ll tell you the truth—we’d given up. You can only keep it going so long. If the patient doesn’t pick up eventually it’s either let him go—or turn him into a cyborg. He was hovering between standard procedure and ‘do not resuscitate,’ and it looked like the DNR was the winner.”

“But he’s OK now?”

“He’s going to be all right, we think. He was unlucky—bullet nicked the inferior vena cava. He’s a bit off standard build, or else he moved. Nearly bled out. But he’s patched and he seems to be hanging in there.”

Lestrade expected that if John or Mycroft had been there the doctor would have been speaking a pure dialect of medicalese—John’s medical degree and Mycroft’s aura of genius would have made it a matter of pride. He was just as happy to be spared, himself.

“I can tell his brother and friends he looks like he’s going to make it?”

“Well—no promises. Not yet. There are still things that can go wrong. But he’s stable and it looks promising.”

“Uh-huh. Can I go in and see him, now?”

Lestrade had lost track of how many times he’d seen Sherlock in hospital. That first time with Mycroft, of course—but plenty of other times since. Bullets, knives, contusions, fractures: Sherlock attracted injuries. Until now they’d tended to be modest enough to provide a bit of drama, but limited terror.

This time he lay on the hospital bed, rigged with IV lines, with leads to too many machines. His face was too pale, and there were streaks of blood smearing his body, only roughly wiped clean. Lestrade looked at the nurse who’d brought him in. “Shouldn’t you clean that off?”

“We try not to fuss with them for non-vital things,” she said, softly. “He needs to rest more than he needs us to wipe the shmootz.”

He nodded. It made sense. “It’s probably just as well his brother can’t make it here,” he said, softly.

“Why?”

“Last time I saw him with Sherlock in the hospital, he was wiping his face,” he said. “I doubt he could stop himself if he were here, now.” He swallowed, hard. “He has gentle hands…but Sherlock will sleep better without Mycroft fussing over him.”

Sherlock’s breath rose, and fell. He looked like a man who’d almost died.

Lestrade called Anthea. “He’s alive, he’s stable, the doctors think his chances are good. What’s up with John?”

“Our lawyers sprung him. Helps that Magnussen decided not to press charges. He’s on his way over now.”

“Good. You probably want to arrange for him to have proxy, too, for emergencies.”

“It’s already been considered. We’re sticking with you.”

“All right. What do you want me to do next? I can stay the night, but I’m getting a bit punch drunk.”

“No. Come over here to MI6. You need to tell Mycroft yourself.”

He snorted. “Don’t be silly. Just pass the word.”

“No,” she said, her voice intense. “From me it’s just a report. From you? It’s voice and face and he’ll hear it and see it in you. From you it will be real.”

He thought of Mycroft—reserved, aloof, but so aware of voices and faces and all the nuance of human interaction. Shy and easily overwhelmed, but also not content with virtual interactions.”

“He trusts you,” Anthea said. “And you were there.”

“I’ll be over as soon as I can,” Lestrade said.

“The driver’s been told to wait for you after he drops off John,” she said. “Take your time, but don’t worry about having a lift.”

She met him in the outer receiving office, greeting him with a tired smile and a brimming cup of tea. “Come sit here—you can help me monitor his involvement. The trick is to look for a point where he’s not actively involved in too much.” She pulled up a net-backed ergonomic office chair next to her own.

She had a split-screen display of Mycroft working on her monitor: one master shot, face-on, of Mycroft’s entire desk, a mini-screen showing a shot of his face—apparently from the built-in camera in his laptop—and a third frame showing his monitor itself, divided into still more screens, the font so small Lestrade couldn’t make sense of it.

“He doesn’t mind you spying on him?”

“It’s his own system,” she said. “Let’s me monitor his work load without distracting him. He considered putting me behind a two-way mirror, but he decided he’d be throwing himself off every time his peripheral vision caught him moving. This way at least he feels isolated.”

Lestrade nodded, then, curious, asked, “How many people does he let in here?”

She gave him a thoughtful look. “Maybe twenty make it all the way into this office. Well—forty, if you stretch a point. Most people he’ll meet in one of the conference rooms, though. Or, better, one of the cover offices off site. He’s got several. This one—we call it his man-cave. Mainly so he’ll make faces at us, but…well. It’s better to laugh that freak ourselves out calling it the cave of the oracle or the sacred grotto. So we call it Mycroft’s Man-Cave. He hates it.”

“Twenty people.”

“Not regularly. There are only about ten of us who are ever in there often. Me. Bremmen. Sherlock, when he’s working on something with Mycroft. Ascher. Wang. You. A few others. Oh, yeah: Baker and Tornhill—they’re the data modeling honchos. That’s close to it. He doesn’t like people going in unless he’s comfortable with them.”

Lestrade thought of all the famous and powerful Mycroft dealt with daily, none of whom were mentioned on that list. They might, he supposed, be part of the forty or so who did occasionally access Mycroft’s private office. Still, he suspected that Mycroft took full advantage of the diplomacy of visiting royalty and Prime Ministers in their own territory—just to ensure they did not trespass on his own.

“Funny,” he said, “I’ve spent hours in there, going over reports and data feeds.”

She nodded. “You’re one of his favorites,” she said. “There aren’t many of us he actually encourages.

Which was, Lestrade thought, a novel definition of the term “encourage.” But, then—yes. Mycroft invited him, seemed comfortable with him, let him linger.

“How important is this current thing,” he asked, looking at the screen.

She shrugged. “Look at him and tell me.”

Mycroft looked tired and wired: hair mussed, face drawn, eyes puffy from eyestrain and lack of sleep. He’d stripped off his jacket, unbuttoned his waistcoat, removed his tie and unbuttoned both his collar and his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves. On his desk were his primary laptop, a secondary netbook, an auxiliary screen, two tablets, three separate and distinct mobile phones, and an office phone with multiple lines. A small island of cups had accumulated on one corner of his desk, where he apparently shoved them as they were drained. A plate with the nibbled crust of a sandwich sat at his elbow.

“He looks all in,” he said.

“He’s been at this for over two days straight, and he may be another three or four,” she said. “And that’s assuming nothing goes wrong.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“Nope.” She smiled. “Not even the code name. If I tell you I have to kill you.”

They sat drinking tea, watching Mycroft work. It was quiet, non-stop labor. The man wove back and forth, from screen to screen, from phone call to phone call, his focus never wavering.

Lestrade, weary, eventually slumped in the chair, propping his head on the upper edge of the chair-back, and dozed until Anthea woke him.

“Time,” she said. “He’s taking a break.”

He glanced at the screen. Mycroft had apparently shut his laptop down. He was rubbing his eyes, brushing gummy crust from his lashes.

Lestrade let Anthea lead him in.

Mycroft looked up, then. His face came alive, filled with hope and fear.

“Sherlock?”

“Came through. Looked bad—they had a tough time getting his heart going a time or two. But they think he’s going to be fine. I checked him before I left the hospital. He’s pale, and he looks like hell. Don’t be surprised if he’s covered in bloodstains if you go over—they’re trying to give him a chance to rest before they clean him up. But he’s breathing, the repairs went well, and it looks like clear sailing from here on in.”

Mycroft listened to each word, studied each shift in expression. When Lestrade was done, Mycroft closed his eyes. “Thank God.” His hands came up, and he covered his face. “Thank God.”

His voice was calm, controlled—and, yet, alive with his relief.

“You’re Sherlock’s, aren’t you,” he asked, face still covered. “You’’ll stand by him through this?”

Lestrade paused, suddenly unsure what he wanted to say. Mycroft came out from behind his hands, and frowned, his eyes worried.

“You are Sherlock’s friend?”

Lestrade nodded. Of course he was Sherlock’s friend.

Mycroft wilted in relief. “Good. Good.”

“John’s there,” Lestrade said. “He’ll look after him.”

Mycroft shrugged. “John.” It wasn’t cruel or resentful—just dismissive. “John’s a good man,” he said. “He means well. But he’s got other concerns. Other priorities. He’s not really one of us, is he?”

“Us?”

Mycroft flared his fingers, indicating himself, Anthea, Lestrade—all of MI6 in the building beyond. “ _Us.”_

No. John Watson, no matter how loving, how loyal, wasn’t part of any “us” Mycroft would ever really understand or accept. He was Mary’s husband. He was Sherlock’s friend. He was a good man. He wasn’t someone Mycroft Holmes would ever really trust…

Lestrade found himself oddly pleased to know that he, though, was part of Mycroft’s little enchanted circle of “us” and “we.”

The next days, weeks, months, he became more and more aware of that odd feeling of “us.” Mycroft, battered by his own high-priority issues, struggled to deal with Sherlock’s vagaries. He was relieved when Lestrade was able to pass on that Sherlock appeared to have stopped his involvement with Charles Augustus Magnussen soon after he was let out of hospital. The two men congratulated themselves on having weathered yet another of Sherlock’s tempests.

“Not that I expect the calm to last,” Mycroft muttered one evening in mid-December. “The primary analytical team has decided Sherlock’s their best bet to pull of the mess in Eastern Europe. I’ve had to agree with them—God knows, they’re right. But now I’m going to have to tell Sherlock not to take it. He’s contrary enough he may accept even if I do tell him it’s death on the wing. And Christmas. God alone knows who put it in Mummy’s head to do a bloody Dickens Christmas, complete with John and Mary playing all “great with child” Christmas panto and Sherlock apparently even bringing us our very own disadvantaged Homeless Tiny Tim.” He moaned, softly. “I hate Christmas. Sherlock always does something to ruin Christmas. I wish I could just stay home.”

Lestrade had learned that “home” was the old family estate. “Mummy and Father’s” was the dower house the older couple had chosen to raise their family in. His own flat was “my rooms.”

“You could phone in sick,” Lestrade suggested.

“No, I could not. Mummy would send Anthea to roust me out of bed and get me on my way,” Mycroft muttered. “She subverts even my best minions.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Seems you’re doomed, then. But, hey—how bad can it be?”

“Blackmailing dominatrix with international security secrets faking dead and me worried Sherlock’s going to OD again? That was the Christmas before Sherlock jumped off St. Bart’s. Or the year after—he was picked up by Russian agents who thought he was after the Orthodox Patriarch Kiril I, in Moscow.” He said it properly, too—something that, to Lestrade, sounded something like “Musk-vah.”

“Hmmm. You could stay with me. Sleep on the sofa, drink beer, listen to the Queen’s address, eat Chinese food.”

Mycroft smiled at him—a smile that either slipped out more often than Lestrade had realized, or that he noticed with greater awareness. “Sounds charming…but Anthea would find me and scold us both.”

“Ah, well. You need new minions. Tell you what,” Lestrade said, “when your Christmas is over, come on by mine. We’ll drink a shot of my cheap scotch and celebrate that you’re out of hell and part-way through purgatory.”

Mycroft murmured a polite “well, maybe,” but neither of them expected it would really happen.

The knock came at half-past nine on the evening of Boxing Day. Lestrade, dressed in jeans and a team jumper, opened the door to find Mycroft, straight and still.

They looked at each other in silence.

Lestrade nodded and stepped aside, letting Mycroft in. He pointed at the sofa, then went to the kitchen and returned with a cheap juice glass filled to the top with scotch. He handed it to Mycroft, who’d seated himself on the sofa with the stiff posture of a Victorian governess. The man took the glass, his black gloves stark against the amber glow. He closed his eyes, raised the glass, and drank it down like medicine, before handing the glass back to Lestrade.

“Need more?”

“Dare not.”

“Probably not if you intend to drink them all like that. So—what happened?”

“Sherlock murdered Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

Lestrade considered, then said, “You need another glass. So do I.”

When he came back he sat on the sofa beside Mycroft. Both sipped their scotch—more temperately than they had previously.

“Where is he now?”

“MI6 high-security holding cell. Ironically, the same one we used for Moriarty.”

“John and  Mary?”

“Mary’s fine. Drugged, like the rest of us: clearly out of the loop. John’s being investigated for high treason—but it looks like Sherlock’s going to claim full blame if he can.”

Lestrade thought about it. He sipped his scotch.

“Helluva thing,” he said. “Damn Sherlock anyway. What happens next?”

“I have no idea. Murder and high treason…”

Mycroft began to shiver. Lestrade could feel it through the sofa—a soft tremor. He glanced over and saw the scotch in Mycroft’s glass dance. Gently, he reached over and took the glass away, setting it down on the side-table beside him. He added his own glass, before turning to Mycroft and saying, “What do you need?”

A faint frown creased Mycroft’s forehead, as though he had no idea what the question even meant. “What?”

“What do you need? A place to stay for a day or two while you figure out the next move? A leg-man to check information for you? Just someone to make sure you eat and shower and sleep? What can I do to help?”

The frown grew deeper—Mycroft’s eyes more bewildered. “I…if your duties come into play, I’d let you know.”

Lestrade sighed. “Not duties. Just help. What can I do to help?”

“People don’t ask me that,” Mycroft said, blankly. “They don’t. They ask me to help them.”

Lestrade was sure on a better day Mycroft would not have been so at a loss. As it was, he was confounded, gaping like a cartoon goldfish dumped out of his bowl. Lestrade grinned, ruefully, and said, “It’s what friends do, Mycroft. They offer to help.”

Later he would remember Sherlock’s Best Man speech, and his story about John asking him to be his Best Man. That night, though, all he thought was, “I’ve wrecked him,” as Mycroft stared in complete speechless silence. Minutes ticked by as Mycroft pondered the imponderable. Eventually he said, “You’re…my friend?”

“Yes, you muggins.”

“But—why? Why me, of all people? Why now? God. Of all times, why now?”

“You, because—you’re a good man, and a great man, and I like you, and I’m proud to have your back. And now—because now’s the kind of time when you need your friends the most.”

“ _Sherlock_ needs you. John and Mary need you.”

Lestrade shrugged. “They need me _too_.” He didn’t say “You need me.” He didn’t need to.

The frown refused to leave. Mycroft pulled into himself. Lestrade could almost see plate armor and spikes. “I…” He stopped, then started again. “I’m the only one who can deal with Lady Southwood and the Commission. I’m going to have to negotiate something. I don’t know what, yet. It won’t be good. Sherlock and John and Mary are going to need a friend, though.”

There was entirely too much going unsaid tonight, Lestrade thought. This time it was Mycroft, not-saying that Sherlock and John and Mary wouldn’t want him—but that they would accept Lestrade.

It was, unfortunately, true…and not what Lestrade wanted to get sorted.

“I’ll be happy enough to serve as your proxy,” he said, angling for an opening. “I’ve done it before.”

Mycroft nodded. Not looking at Lestrade he said, “There’s a good chance I won’t be able to find a good answer—just something better than summary execution. I may be able to buy us time and a chance to find a better answer.”

“Mycroft, you didn’t create this mess. You’re—“

He stopped. Mycroft had turned white, and the tremor was back.

“Of course I created this mess. If I had handled Magnussen properly, Mary properly, Sherlock properly, we’d never have reached this point.” His mouth clamped tight, then, and he rose. “I’ve said too much.”

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. “You know, I’m not exactly surprised you’ve got a dog in this fight. There was no way you wouldn’t have. But I’m willing to bet this didn’t end where it did without you kicking and screaming and shouting ‘No, don’t go there!’ the whole time Sherlock and his buddies were playing Charge of the Light Brigade and galloping into the cannon-fire.”

Mycroft stood and tidied his coat, clearly preparing to leave. “Obviously I didn’t shout loud enough, or use the right words.”

“Mycroft…come on. This is _Sherlock_ we’re talking about.”

He turned, then, eyes confused and reproachful. “You’re his friend.”

“And I’ll stand by him. Within sane limits and maybe a bit farther. But I know him, and I know you, and I know which of you is mental enough to have bolloxed this up this badly.”

“He needs you.”

“Oh, for the love of God, stop trying to give me away to your kid brother,” Lestrade snapped. “Yeah. He needs me—always has. And I’m there for him. But he’s not my only friend….and he’s not the only one who needs a friend.”

“I don’t have friends,” Mycroft said, turning the words into a reprimand.

“Yeah, you do. Or you never would have knocked on my door in the first place.”

He watched the logic roll over the last of Mycroft’s barriers like an armored tank rolling over rough ground. The younger man started to speak, hesitated, started again, then just stood, blinking and bewildered. Lestrade sighed, then reached out and caught Mycroft’s hand. He gripped his wrist and the heel of Mycroft’s hand—an intentionally male gesture, between comrades, between warriors. “I have your back. You understand? Not just because I’m your subordinate. I have your back. I’ll cover you. You are not alone.”

That bewildered little frown was back—but Mycroft still gingerly wrapped his own fingers around Lestrade’s wrist. “I…see.”

It was so obvious he didn’t see at all that Lestrade didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead he just said, “Look, don’t worry about it. Just know you’ve got backing, and a door you can knock on, right? Someone you can ask to help.”

Mycroft nodded, uncertainly, and took his hand back. He moved toward the door. “I… thank you. I’d better be off, now. I haven’t had any sleep since Sherlock drugged me yesterday.”

“Sherlock drugged…?” Lestrade stopped himself. “No. Don’t tell me now. Get some sleep. Just let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Mycroft nodded, and opened the door, stepping out with dignity—only to turn back, head craning around the half-closed door. “You do understand I may not be able to save Sherlock? I may not be able to do anything, and if I do manage something it may not be anything but sending him from sure death into probable death?”

“Yeah. You kind of made that clear. And? You’re still my friend.”

Mycroft cocked his head like a puzzled spaniel pup, then sighed. “I… All right. Good night, DI Lestrade.” Then he slipped back into the hall and was gone.

Weeks later, Lestrade’s mobile rang. He slipped it out, and checked the screen; it was Mycroft calling. He tabbed the phone on. “Hey, Mike.”

“He’s back,” Mycroft purred.

“Yeah, I saw,” Lestrade grumbled. “On every station the pub picks up. Every screen in England. What are you going to do about it?”

“Oh, about Moriarty? I don’t know. I was talking about Sherlock. Thanks to that obnoxious little pillock the Star Chamber was begging me to bring Sherlock back. He’s here, now.”

“Not in Eastern Europe, then?”

“Baker Street. Not even house arrest. Parole, though, and Lady Smallwood’s willing to offer complete pardon and a sealed record if he gets rid of the nutter.”

Lestrade laughed. “And you’re happy as a cat locked in a fishmonger’s stall.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft huffed, with laughter under the words. “I’m a sober, responsible member of government. I can only deplore the circumstances that make it expedient to forgive my scapegrace brother.”

“Yeah, right,” Lestrade said.

He’d spent the days between Mycroft’s knock at his door and now serving as a liaison between Mycroft and Sherlock. It wasn’t that different than it had ever been. It seemed now as though he’d been Mycroft’s proxy in some sense since that first night, by Sherlock’s bedside. For over a decade he’d dealt with the maddening, brilliant renegade with the knowledge that he was beloved by a tall, quiet man with tender eyes and gentle hands. Over the years the knowledge had colored everything—changed everything.

Sherlock had been a surly bear at first—as petulant and tempestuous as he had been at the beginning.

“The doctors who examined you when you were arrested say you were coming off withdrawal,” Lestrade said. “But they’re pretty sure you weren’t using when it all went down.”

“Couldn’t afford to be high,” Sherlock growled. “I had to be at my peak.”

“Uh-huh. How’d that work out for you, then?”

Sherlock shot him a resentful glance. “You try it and see how far you get.”

“Not where it got you.”

“If you’re going to rub my nose in it you might as well just send Mycroft down.”

“Mycroft’s fairly busy right now. You’re stuck with me.”

“Mycroft’s proxy.”

“That, too. And your friend.”

“Are you?”

Lestrade sighed. “You know I am.”

Sherlock studied him. There was something hungry and intense about him that Lestrade hadn’t seen since the early days. A possessive fury…. Then the younger man sighed. “Yes. I know.” He gave a crooked grin. “Thank you.”

Lestrade blinked. “Damn. You really are growing up.”

Sherlock shrugged, and gave a weak, half-hearted smirk. “One suspects given enough time even I may become….human.”

“You always were human. Just a bit….wild.”

“How is John,” Sherlock asked, changing the subject. “They won’t let him see me. Not until this is resolved.” He sighed. “Probably not until I go away. Mycroft says he’ll try to make sure John and Mary can at least see me off.”

“John’s fine. Mary, too.”

Sherlock nodded. “I may not come back from this, you know. Mycroft really hates the odds.”

“He’s already doing what he can to change those figures. If he can get you out alive, he will.”

“I know.” He slumped in his chair, by the fireplace in Baker Street. “I never have managed to make Mycroft make sense,” he said. “I would swear he hates me. But—then he does things like this. And the thing is, I know he will. I always have known.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

Sherlock scowled. “What kind of friend are you? You’re supposed to reassure me and take my side.”

“I’m the kind who calls you on your crap,” Lestrade said. “Plenty people to tell you you’re a genius. God, _Anderson_ will tell you you’re a genius. Me, I’ll tell you you’re a screwed up berk. And I’ll make it stick.”

“You’ll do a drugs raid when I’m a complete prat.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock grinned. “Yeah. Ok. I can go with that,” he said, suddenly chipper.

He’d changed since he came back, Lestrade thought. He was happier, more relaxed, less artificial. Whatever process John had started, John and Mary together seemed to have brought even further.

Lestrade had mourned that the change had come to full bloom only in time to see Sherlock sent away again.

It was good to learn instead that he’d stay.

“Come welcome him home,” Mycroft said over the phone connection, still sounding like a happy, contented ginger tom sprawled in the sunshine with grass tickling his whiskers. “We’re going out for dinner tonight. Come with us.”

So he had…and now he walked behind them, down the corridors of MI6 later that night. Two tall men, talking together, copping attitude at each other with a sort of lazy humor that made all their sniping a game—at least for tonight. For tonight the two were The Holmes Boys—red Irish and black Irish in their coloring, pure John Bull English in their souls.

“It’s time for me to get home,” Sherlock said. “Lestrade can share my taxi.”

“No,” Lestrade said. “Not tonight.”

“We’re going out for one last toast to your health and your return over at the Diogenes,” Mycroft added. “I’ll have the limo take him back to his place from there.” He turned to Lestrade. “If you’ll give me a moment, I need to get my things ready for tomorrow. It’s going to be a busy day.”

Lestrade nodded, and watched as Mycroft disappeared into his office.

Sherlock studied him, considering. Slowly, quietly he asked, “Whose man are you, Lestrade?”

Lestrade thought about it, and said, “Mycroft’s.”

Sherlock nodded, and sighed. “Good,” he said, not without a trace of regret. “That’s…good.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be a story about the development of an OT3 between Mycroft, Sherlock, and Lestrade, and was intended to conform more or less to Jacob, Rachel and Leah in the story from Genesis. They're among the most dysfunctional triads in literature, with too much more love and resentment and competition and mental mess than you ever want to see. 
> 
> The thing is, while Sherlock was actually willing enough to play possessive little flirt and try to keep John as his favorite and Lestrade as his backup and both of them as celibate worshippers, he wasn't interested in playing more than possessive diva. And Mycroft and Lestrade wandered off and did something else. 
> 
> Over the arc of the story it turned into a question of loyalty, and priority--and the story of how Sherlock kept a friend, and yet lost him. By the end, Lestrade still is true friend to Sherlock, but he's become THE friend to Mycroft. 
> 
> I can't decide if this story works. It went in all sorts of directions I didn't plan, took longer than I expected, and is playing with themes I hadn't laid out at the start. And, yet, part of me says that it's "true" to the three men. I'd love to know what you think. I'm still debating letting it sit for awhile and then attempting a rewrite, just to see what I get. I seldom do that with these stories: they're write-and-post, with seldom more than a half-an-hour between writing the last words and getting the piece online, and only minor clean-up editing afterward as I spot mistakes. But this one is so far off what I thought it would be, and yet I keep kind of liking it...
> 
> Again, lemme know what you think.


End file.
